


Converging Sentiments | A Wilde week 2020 | Day 2 | Recording

by Sevik



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: A Wilde Week 2020 (Rusty Quill Gaming), Day 2, M/M, Oscar writes his own letter after Sasha's, some beta, spoilers for anything after Japan Arc, we did not die like the romans this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:22:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27594071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevik/pseuds/Sevik
Summary: Day 2 - "Memory... is the diary we all carry about with us."Remembering | Forgetting | RecordingAfter Sasha's letter, Oscar muses if he should write a letter or two himself. Spoiler? He does! And Zolf even gets two. What a lucky man.All the thanks to the WIR server. You peeps are the best. I love you all so much!(Set somewhere after 174 and ignoring 175.)
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 9
Kudos: 29
Collections: A Wilde Week 2020





	Converging Sentiments | A Wilde week 2020 | Day 2 | Recording

**Author's Note:**

  * For [platoapproved](https://archiveofourown.org/users/platoapproved/gifts), [Desilite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desilite/gifts).



> Also, by the time this is published it is my birthday. So happy birthday ME!  
> Come join me celebrating. I got cake!
> 
> Thank you Sav for the title of the Campell novel!  
> And thank you Mike for proof-reading. You really helped me going.  
> And a special thank you and a gift to platoapproved and Desilite because your comments... *chef's kiss* Love you. So much!

The letter from Sasha had been such a bittersweet surprise. To think she'd thought of them, after all these years, and the marvel of the letter having survived every turmoil, only to make it to them right when they'd needed it. What a pleasant way to say both hello and goodbye. Oscar wondered if, maybe, he should write a letter or two himself. 

After all, he thought with a wry smile and a long, sorrowful look at the "desk" he was working at, if anyone were to judge the members of this band by their writing skills, he was the most qualified. He wrote to his mother and sister, letters that came both naturally yet painstakingly slow. There was no way they'd still be alive but the idea of maybe one day being able to visit their graves and just leave the letters there, planting the words like flowers - it soothed him.

As he reached for another piece of paper, he hesitated. Should he write one to his... his friends? The people staying here with him? The people he dragged along on an unwinnable race against the end of the world? He was their employer. Would they even care if he'd died? 

With a heavy sigh he shook his head. Silly thoughts. Of course they would. His tired head just knew how to mess with him. And so, once again a man on a mission, he wrote to Zolf, to Hamid, to everyone, including Sasha.

Zolf's letter he started many times, until he realized that there would simply have to be two.

\---------------------------------

It is Cel who urged him to just read them. To get it over with. They'd tried every line they had, every angle. Zolf wasn't blind. He’d seen his friends crying and laughing while reading their respective letter, but for the longest part of their journey he couldn't bring himself to read his. There was a time and a place for grief and remembrance. He had to keep them going, had to keep himself going. If he stopped now…

But there was only so long he could carry everyone. Until he’d crumbled one night, 

thankfully in an inn, when everyone was enjoying themselves. He'd excused himself for the evening, knowing everyone was safe - for now - and he just couldn't take another step. 

He kept Wilde's letters in his worn Harrison Campell novel "The Burden of your Eyes"(1) and hadn't touched it in a long time. Zolf missed Wilde, missed reading with him. They hadn't done it that often, but he cherished those evenings so much. And now he couldn't even bring himself to turn another page in his favourite book, the two letters still tucked in between the pages he'd last read before the crash.

He owed him that much. He couldn't push the man away forever.

With a shaking breath he opened the book, turned it upside down to not lose his progress, and took the first letter. He'd found it odd then that everyone seemed to have gotten only one while Zolf had been handed two, neatly labeled so he would read them in order. That particular puzzle, he mused, would surely sort itself. He read…

\---------------------------------

Dear Zolf,

Now before we start with what I can only surmise must be a most pleasant ordeal to you, I shall apologize in advance for the length of this letter and the style it is written in. I do understand I am no Harrison Campbell but, seeing as I am your employer and your friend and, quite frankly dead, I may adapt a more casual, conversational tone - one you will have to simply endure. I do hope that you will read this letter to the end, Zolf. It has taken me quite some time to lay out, and many a sheet of paper has gone to waste until I could lay out what you desperately need to hear and what I want you to know. 

Like the other letters for our mutual friends and acquaintances, this one was written with a specific purpose in mind. It has come to my attention that we are all occasionally prone to giving in to bouts of self-doubt and giving up in the face of what is about to come. So, as I am currently emotionally unable to have long-winded talks about genuine feelings or profound affections, this is the best I can do after my demise. I will share my honest and best impression of you in the hopes that you will take it to heart, and that it will help you see yourself in a better light. 

This letter is meant to build you up, a gift from friend to friend. It's not much, but what other use am I these days? If there is anyone who is most proficient in assessing character, it is me, and you will just have to believe me. You are awfully forward and direct, often to the point of being rude. This is not the part of the letter where I stand to judge your character, merely a premise. Quite frankly, as your friend, I must say I have come to adore that part of you, mostly when that crudeness was directed at others. So, just like yourself, I too shall be direct in my assessment. 

Zolf, I have come to know you as a painfully honest and straightforward sort of man. A blatant honesty lies within your very character and, paired with a sharp mind and many years of well-earned experience, your words carry great weight to those around you. Your steadfast presence and conviction pull each of us along on this dreaded journey and you make it seem almost effortless. You do not think of yourself as a great leader, but that's only because you are unable to stand beside yourself and see you for who you truly are.

And if one were to see behind that gruff exterior and the necessary distance we both have cultivated so we can lead and endure the losses, then by the gods, they would see the most kind-hearted and caring man. I saw you feeding the stray cats every other day. I noticed you preparing our respective comfort meals for Howard and James and even myself. You always helped the innkeeper when his back was acting up. Here I am rambling when you so often showed me the very same kindness. How often have you come to my door and have told me to take care of myself, to get some sleep or finish my meals or my tea? Did you know that your voice changes when you're really worried? I so far have failed to describe it. There is love in your labour and if you think it goes unnoticed or is in any way lesser than kind words or affectionate touches you are very, very wrong and I shall send my mother after you, chasing you with a broom.

Has it ever occured to you that all of the people, the beloved acquaintances or family members we might or might not have had in Europe, are all most likely dead? There is nothing to save back home and you and I keep going, keep pushing to maybe save just one more person we do not even know. We are similar in this one thing, Zolf, and that is our shared sense of duty to such an abstract thing as "the world". It takes a lot of discipline to stick to it and to not give up hope. The weight you carry on your shoulders is tremendous and, honestly, I don't think anyone else but you could carry it. There's no one strong enough to finish this. Isn't it ironic, that someone who has lost both legs continues to be the driving force for everyone else? That's you, Zolf, taking a hard look at what fate serves you only to resolutely shake your head and demand them to redo the dish, telling them to do better.

At this point, I cannot help but offer some friendly advice amidst my laudation. As much as I praise you for your tenacity - now that I am gone, you need to look for someone else you can confide in. In my wildest dreams I fancied myself to be the person you could have opened up to. I feel that, sometimes, we have become very close. You haven't been going through this alone and sooner or later you will need to find someone to be able to break down on. I know you've always been there for me when I had worn myself too thin. I can only wish you will find someone of the same caliber for yourself.

Have I made myself very clear? Have I made you yourself very clear? To put it mildly, you are a man who possesses all the best qualities a man could have. That you are a very loveable person, both able to give so much and deserving to have it given back tenfold. How I wish for you to live a long, good life so you may come to view yourself as I do.

There is one more thing I feel like sharing and I hope you will not bear me any ill will for it. Please trust that what you will find written are the words of a friend. A friend that has had his fair share in men and considers himself a bit of a _connoisseur_ , so please remember that my praise for your looks is coming from someone who knows what they are talking about. You are very much a looker, Zolf. You have your own, rough appeal. I merely mention this so that you may notice it yourself. Who knows? Maybe someday it will help you understand why some people look at you the way they do.

Zolf, you are the best friend I have ever had. I wish it had not taken the world ending for us to become this close.

You may have noticed that there is a second letter. I can only hope that you will forgive me for that one. You absolutely must believe in both my honesty and objectivity as your friend when it comes to the first letter. For the sake of our friendship, I have undertaken great lengths to keep two converging sentiments separate for a very long time. To give credit where credit is due, I find that I have succeeded in that quite spectacularly and, for both of our sakes, I have kept the second letter as short and on point as possible.

Your friend,

Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde

\---------------------------------

Zolf could feel his heartbeat all the way up in his ears, silent tears falling from his eyes as Wilde's voice faded out with the letter. 'It can't be...', he told himself. 'He wouldn't...'. And yet, as Zolf began to doubt the second letter would be anything but a love letter, he felt his heart break. It couldn't *not* be a love letter. He didn't want it to be anything else. And it had taken him all this time, the world to end and for Wilde to die to realize…

Drawing a deep breath he opened the second letter with surprisingly steady hands. Immediately he could tell that Wilde was a man of his word. 

It was short, almost painfully so. It read: "I love you." 

  
  
  


(1) Thank you Sav!


End file.
